


Assumptions

by BourbonNeat



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s07e01 Top Gear (UK), M/M, TGS Secret Santa 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3123953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonNeat/pseuds/BourbonNeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A couple of recently single mates occasionally falling into bed together does not constitute a relationship, of that James is  certain. Isn't he?</p><p>Set during the filming of Series 7, Episode 1 on the Isle of Man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assumptions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marginaliana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/gifts).



> Written for the TGS 2014 Secret Santa.
> 
> Primarily based on the following prompt: _Jeremy is actually really good at something improbable. Knitting? Cooking?_ But it also has elements of another request: _Something episode-focused for an episode that doesn't already have (much) fic for it. Maybe something from one of the early series?..._
> 
> Disclaimer: This is fiction and is not meant to imply anything about the people who appear in the story.

“Good morning, May.”

Jeremy’s voice was a low, pleased sounding rumble in James’ ear. The laugh that followed was perfectly filthy, and in a timbre that always went straight to James’ cock. It was the only warning he received before six foot, five inches of irresistible oaf pressed him firmly against the wall of the sunlight dappled hallway.

The first kiss was deep and lazy, the next more heated as James groaned and grabbed at Jeremy’s belt, hauling him even closer. One hand ran up his side, under his jumper, Jeremy’s palm warm and strong against bare skin. Fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just right, as teeth scraped his lower lip. Good. So bloody good. Just the way he usually liked it – a prelude to a playful struggle, a turn of the tables perhaps, or just letting himself be devoured.

Usually. Except, not here. Not here and certainly not out in the hall where anyone could…

“James. James!” Jeremy pulled away slightly as James’ body went stiff and self-conscious. “Would you just relax, there’s no one. They’re all at the other end of the house or out in the drive looking over the cars.” 

He was probably right. James moved his hand to grip Jeremy’s hip, as the taller man murmured something that sounded like ‘missed you last night,’ breath warm and shivery against his ear. James ran his other hand through wild curls, still somewhat damp from the shower, and pulled Jeremy back into a kiss. Tried to lose himself again in the lush heat of his mouth, the solid weight of Jeremy’s hips pressed tightly to his.

But it was no good. All he could think about was getting caught, of eyes staring – Richard’s, Andy’s, Iain’s – not in disapproval or disgust, never that, but with hints of... James broke away from the kiss, hands dropping to his sides in defeat.

“Fuck. James,” Jeremy practically growled in frustration, pulling back. “What is wrong–” But he broke off before continuing the rant any further. James expected headshaking and mockery then, would have accepted it gladly, but instead Jeremy shut his eyes for a moment, visibly taking a deep breath, and raised his hands in a gesture that was half placating, half small boy reminding himself not to touch. “Okay. All right. I’m – not here, then.”

The location of one bloody bag ought not to cause so much confusion and upset.

 

*********

 

The weather over the Isle of Man seemed moody that morning; dark clouds and a thick, persistent mist momentarily yielding to stunning blue skies, before rolling right back in again in a fit of temper. As James leaned against the moss covered gate post, watching the crew film a few final shots of the Porsche before setting up the interior cameras, he felt just as unsettled.

There had been a brief hint of something earlier in the hallway with Jeremy, something important, and if he could actually manage to put a name to what, he’d stop brooding over it. Otherwise, he just had a handful of new pieces to the same puzzle he'd been trying to put together for years now, and instead of clarifying anything, their addition only seemed to confuse the picture slowly taking shape.

Even happier than usual to climb into the car and out of his own head for a while, James began arguing his case for the Porsche almost as soon as the engine turned over.

“You see, for the last 40 years, the 911 has been _the_ yardstick. This is the measure by which all sports coupes have been judged…”

The road was brilliant, turning inland over rolling hills, tall grasses waving in his wake, then twisting back out along craggy cliffs and crashing waves. The lack of a speed limit was exhilarating, Captain Slow reputation be damned, and soon James was utterly besotted with Porsche’s latest creation. But it wasn’t quite enough to keep his stubborn mind from churning over earlier events.

Jeremy made assumptions that he somehow managed to confuse for unassailable logic. This was hardly newsworthy. After all, they’d built entire segments of the show around this often weirdly charming inevitability. It shouldn’t have surprised James when his bag was casually deposited in Jeremy’s room without so much as a nod of agreement on his part, let alone anything resembling a discussion. And that was just – well, it wasn’t as if the crew didn’t already know. Discretion was only so effective among such a close-knit group, especially one that spent so much time on the road together. But openly sharing a room, especially the master bedroom Jeremy had shared with his now ex-wife when they’d filmed here just two years ago?

It would have made things look more serious than they were, as if James had somehow mistaken easy, convenient, rather brilliant sex with Jeremy for a relationship. A couple of recently single mates – neither of whom had ever exactly been one hundred percent straight – occasionally falling into bed together did not constitute a relationship, of that he was certain. Even if he had to remind himself of this certainty from time to time. James knew that he never had to worry about acceptance or respect, not here among colleagues who had quickly become family, but he desperately feared looking like a fool. Feared making a fool of himself.

The Porsche growled eagerly as he accelerated out of a turn, and a quick flash of sunlight burst through the clouds just as he caught sight of the sea again, pulling him firmly out of his reverie and into the present. He reveled in the feel of the Porsche responding to the road, the powerful engine purring through the steering wheel in his hands, rumbling up through his feet. But the appeal of this car was something so much more than power and traction and torque. James felt his frustrations draining away as the fizz bubbled up, coloring his running commentary, making his expressions more animated.

“…It’s something about the way it feels. It’s a real living thing. It’s very, very difficult to explain but, once it gets under your skin, you’ve had it…”

He couldn’t help himself. Flashing a suddenly giddy smile directly at the camera, he pressed down on the accelerator even harder.

 

*********

 

The rain stopped misting and teasing, and settled in for a proper shower while James was still driving the Porsche. It certainly wasn’t reason enough to shorten his test drive, but it did completely bugger filming plans for later in the afternoon. Even if they could coax sufficient performance out of the cars to make the drive look good on camera, the light was gone. And so it was that James found himself reporting to the barnacle-festooned seawall where Jeremy’s property met the ocean, wondering what on earth – even within the decidedly unorthodox context of Top Gear – fishing poles had to do with performance car reviews.

“Maaaay!” Jeremy greeted his arrival with his customary exuberance and an utterly delighted to see you smile.

It was a look that always made being incredibly foolish seem briefly appealing, certainty be damned.

“Are you sure?” Richard laughed. “I mean, yeah, it looks like him. Probably. But that silver streak I saw fly by a few times today was _not_ driven by James.”

“True, true.” Jeremy agreed, looking straight at James. “In May Land that might even have constituted thrashing around corners.” His voice was teasing, but raised eyebrows and something in his expression asked if everything was all right.

James just smiled, excitement and general fizziness from the ride still coloring his cheeks, and watched Jeremy’s shoulders visibly relax. Which was just… When had the man started paying attention?

Jeremy laughed and turned back to Richard. “Oh, I think Slow likes his Beetle very much.”

“It’s not a Beetle, you pillock,” James and Richard declared almost simultaneously, Richard finishing just a beat behind and with, “muppet.”

“And he does.” James added. “Very much, in fact.”

Fishing turned out to be much more about Andy’s determination to salvage some of their lost filming time, than anything directly related to performance car reviews. Of course, when your central premise has always been ‘put one to three idiots in an odd situation and let them talk about cars’ anything could and did relate, and Andy was the master at making it all look compelling once it hit the telly.

“Do you reckon the BMW’s cool?” Jeremy asked as he cast his line out into the sea, carefully avoiding the curious seal who’d paid them a visit.

“No,” James said decisively, with Richard in complete agreement, again just a beat behind. “It’s too…”

“…nerdy,” they said simultaneously.

Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Jeremy barely suppressing a grin as he continued trying to argue for a certain measure of coolness, you know, if you squinted at it just right. This was when it was good, really properly good, all three of them in sync and playing off of one another as naturally as they did in the Portakabin or in the pub.

James never did master the art of talking and making the fishing pole work at the same time – or even the art of competently using the fishing pole, for that matter – but he was having a bloody good time. When Phil finally called a halt to the filming, they were all soaked to the skin and shivering, but laughing uproariously, James with his head thrown back and the full donkey’s bray, Jeremy leaning on him for support, shoulders shaking with mirth.

 

*********

 

In the end, James decided that he was just as unwilling to run _off_ camera. Consequently, he was not the first to reach the house and lay claim to a steaming hot shower and plenty of towels, nor was he the fifth even. By the time he emerged to rejoin the team – dry clothes and drying hair making him feel decidedly more human – about half the crew had already left for dinner.

“Yeah, headed back to that pub where we had lunch,” Andy explained.

“Not joining them, then?”

Andy shook his head. “Jezza said he’d rather stay in, and I’m as shocked to hear it as you, but I do believe he’s got the right idea. We’ll have plenty of time to be out in the rain tomorrow, you know.” He swallowed another swig of beer and eased further back into his chair with a small sigh of contentment.

James smiled. Andy always did look far more relaxed once they were well into filming Plans C, D and E, as if Plan A was an untrustworthy beast out to lull him into a false sense of security, and Plan B’s intentions were little better.

He was just about to ask Jeremy and Richard’s whereabouts when the sound of a crash from the back of the house drew their attention. Lightweight metal striking…something. Two smaller crashes and a thud followed, accompanied by the distinctive ring of Richard’s laughter, growing briefly louder as a door swung open, before it was muffled again. James couldn’t help but grin. Question answered then.

“Ah, yes,” Andy laughed. “The soothing sounds of Jezza cooking.”

James had been about to follow the noise of minor calamity, but that brought him up short. “I’m sorry, the sound of Clarkson what?”

“Cooking, I’d imagine. He said something about leftover sausages and not fancying takeaway.”

James sputtered, blinking in surprise. “Should we have brought the ambulance crew with us then?”

Andy chuckled, clearly both pleased and amused with James’ reaction. “No, no. He's reasonably good at this actually. Did most of the cooking at our flat back in the days when he had hair on top of his head.” Thought about it a moment before conceding, “a professional cleaning crew, perhaps, but not an ambulance.”

Thoroughly bemused, James wandered off in the direction of the kitchen, the sounds of both argument and laughter growing more distinct as he drew near.

 

*********

 

Despite Andy’s reassurances to the contrary, James fully expected to walk into the kitchen and into the middle of an unnatural disaster of the typical Top Gear induced variety – Jeremy attacking unusually stubborn steaks with hammers, or something, and juices flying everywhere. James quickly stifled the laugh that mental image prompted, but not the smile that followed it. Okay, probably nothing quite as bad as that, he thought as he turned the corner into the kitchen, but something… Something not this.

Hurricane Clarkson had become more of a whirlwind of usefulness, moving confidently about the kitchen,while Richard perched on the counter, watching him with the slightly suspicious air of the perpetually picky, scanning every ingredient Jeremy laid hands on for anything objectionable. The whole room smelled – and there was simply no other way for James’ surprised mind to put this – absolutely wonderful. Amber liquid bubbled invitingly in a large stock pot on the stove. Last night’s leftover sausages were sliced into meaty rounds, glistening on a plate as the rich marbles of fat came up to room temperature. Nearby, an open bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, lightly dappled with condensation, sat beside more plates that overflowed with colorful bits of diced onion, tomato and, were those–

“Fresh herbs, Jezza?” He blurted out, by way of astonished greeting, bringing the great Aston Martin vs. BMW debate, round 36 or so, to an abrupt halt.

“Maaaay!” Jeremy emerged from the refrigerator, two bright red peppers in his hands. He flashed James another brilliant smile before reverting to his customary snark, which, if James was honest, had its own appeal. “No, I’m using grass clippings. Idiot. ’Course they’re fresh herbs. We’ve parsley and thyme and, and…other leafy, herby things out growing along the wall.” One hand waved vaguely in the direction of the side yard.

And an herb garden? Well, that at least made a bit of sense. The Cotswolds house Jeremy continued to visit as often as possible _was_ practically a small farm. Even so. “But, you’re cooking?”

“Not really. Cooking’s all recipes and rules and pedantry. I’m throwing a few things into a pot.” Jeremy’s grin took a turn for the smug, clearly pleased at having baffled James. “Anyway. You were tearing around corners today in your Beetle. I’ve decided to be useful.”

“Riiiight _._ Useful,” Richard sniggered before swiveling to face James. “Yes, Jeremy is so thrilled with his Aston that he’s promised to give us all food poisoning to celebrate, and I plan on being here when he blows up the oven.”

“Quiet, fridge magnet,” Jeremy said as he finished rinsing the peppers.

Richard flipped him off, but did stop leaning quite so heavily against the appliance in question. Laughing heartily, both at his mates and from the sheer enjoyment of their company, James helped himself to a glass of wine.

“Jezza, do you need any help with–”

“No, James. I know how pedantic you are with tools and we’d like to eat some time before breakfast.”

Despite his words, Jeremy seemed pleased. And there was that look, the one he only got when he was certain he’d done something useful – a little shy, a lot proud, like a bouncing puppy eager for approval. _Look at what I’m doing, James. Isn’t this brilliant?_ It was impossible not to respond.

“Well, it all looks…good, Jezza. Really wonderful, actually. Paella?” He asked, leaning against the counter near Richard to watch the proceedings.

Blue eyes met brown in a shared look that was equal parts impressed and mystified. They hadn’t quite entered the Twilight Zone, but…

Oblivious to the silent exchange, Jeremy beamed from the praise. “Yeah, we had the sausage, and Francie’s left some things behind. Paella’s great for that.” He smirked at Richard who was busily snacking on a pilfered slice of sausage. “It is just compost on a plate after all.”

Richard squawked in protest. “I will eat cornflakes instead, you know. There’s a lovely big box of them right up here in this cupboard.” Then, more thoughtfully and almost to himself. “Never know. Might even go with the wine.”

“Relax Richard,” Jeremy said, once he’d stopped laughing long enough to respond coherently. “There’s absolutely no fish and no bits – well, no bits you hate. Don't worry, I'm an expert. Katya hasn't grown past the picky stage yet either.”

James tried his best to disguise his laughter as a cough, badly. Richard’s expression – at once mollified and insulted – and the resulting sputter were priceless.

“Yes, when I bring the kids up here we make this or soup. Keeps them occupied where I can see them,” Jeremy said, glancing over at James and Richard as if they might be the children in need of minding, an observation not entirely without merit. “Turns out, playing with knives and tearing things to bits together is great fun.” He nodded, mock sagely.

And James could actually picture it – loud and messy and generally lovely.

Eventually the car discussion resumed, but James’ participation was distracted at best as his attention was drawn, instead, to Jeremy’s hands at work. He watched, fascinated, as Jeremy sliced the tops off of the peppers and cut them in half, pulled out the seeds, and began deftly slicing away the ribs before dicing them up. His technique was a bit heavy handed and unlikely to find endorsement with Jamie Oliver or Gordon Ramsay, but it was clear that the man knew what he was doing. James spent more time thinking about Jeremy's hands than was probably sane or healthy, but, until today, he'd only ever thought of them as clever in a bedroom sense. This was definitely an intriguing new perspective on things.

Oh, he wasn’t going to start checking for overgrown Brussels sprouts bubbling away in odd corners of the house or anything. This was still demonstrably Jeremy. Onion skins, discarded vegetable ends and other debris littered the countertop, alongside half again as many bowls and utensils as strictly necessary, while seedy tomato juice dribbled from the cutting board and pooled nearby. But somehow that made the unexpected display of skills even more attractive.

Naturally, with his unerring sense for when James was doing something embarrassing, Jeremy chose that moment to look up and caught him noticing, practically glowing under the admiring attention. That grin. _Look, look, I’ve done something right. Look James, it’s brilliant!_ It would be foolish if it weren’t so endearing.

James had seen it dozens of times before, on camera and off, usually accompanied by loud pleas for his undivided attention. _Look Slow, I have a hammer. Maaaay, I’ve found the perfect place for curry. James? James! I think I fixed the wipers…er…sort of._

James. Right.

Because it _was_ always him, wasn’t it? Jeremy was a presence. He commanded attention in almost everything he did, consciously and unconsciously. But he never directly sought approval, not like this anyway, unless he was seeking it from…

It was just one more puzzle piece really, innocuous and unassuming. But, once it fell into place, the still unfinished image became clear. And it was not the image James had expected. Not at all.

 

*********

 

James tucked the lighter back into his pocket and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes in pleasure as he felt his shoulders relaxing with the first hit of nicotine. Dinner had been, well, rather excellent really, and what little tension remained after that fourth glass of wine languidly receded with each subsequent puff. The roughly textured plaster of the low wall along the driveway proved a more comfortable perch than one might expect, and the view – dark waters stretching out from craggy cliffs beneath a high canopy of thick clouds – made the cold and damp James could feel seeping slowly into his jeans easy enough to ignore.

The rhythmic crashing of the waves muffled the telltale crunch of gravel, but James sensed Jeremy’s approach even before he felt the familiar hand, warm and sure against the small of his back. It was not unexpected. Whenever James withdrew for any length of time, Jeremy was bound to follow him eventually, with a joke and a smile, or a steady stream of mockery, seemingly eager for his company either way. _Eventually_. Because now that his brain was intent on noticing things, that lag, the much needed bit of time on his own before Jeremy arrived, seemed much more deliberate than he’d previously considered. Smiling, James pressed backwards into the touch, feeling Jeremy pause in surprise before moving closer himself, a deliciously solid presence bending down to speak low in his ear.

“Thought I might find you hiding out here.”

“I’m hardly hiding. I just needed – You’re welcome,” James complained fondly as Jeremy plucked the cigarette from his fingers and took a drag. Swinging long legs back over the wall, he swiveled around to face the thief.

“Time alone to think?” Jeremy asked on the exhale of his first puff, large hand flicking away the ash with the casual elegance of long habit.

“No. Air and a bit of quiet, more like.” He paused, lips curving into a sly smile, and reached out to retrieve the purloined fag. “Oh, and a few minutes to move my bag.” He took a long, slow drag and waited for his meaning to sink in.

“Oh? _Oh_.” Jeremy smiled in pleasure, but after a moment of thought his gaze turned cool and assessing. “James, are you sure? Because I don’t want–”

“I am sure. Sure that I was being a bit of a spanner about this, actually, and I’ve decided to stop.”

Jeremy started to speak again, but James stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I can’t promise you I will ever be comfortable with public affection. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that I won’t be.” He couldn’t help the self-deprecating chuckle that slipped past his lips. “Never have been before. But there are some things…anyway, I think I might understand now, Jeremy.”

He flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the gravel, among the remains of several dozen of its brethren, and ground it out with his toe, part necessity, part excuse to avoid eye contact. When he did look up, there was something soft in Jeremy’s expression.

“Took you long enough,” he said, voice warm and almost tender. “Look, it’s not as if – I can’t promise _you_ patience, Slow. I’m bound to fuck it up on the first try.” He smiled wryly. “Probably on the fourth as well.”

“I don’t know. You do all right.”

Jeremy hesitated, but only for a second, and then drew him up off of the wall and into his arms, James melting eagerly into the embrace.

“You’re a stubborn, awkward arse sometimes, May. You know that right?” Jeremy said fondly, voice muffled by James’ hair. “And you snore. But I just... I always want you there.”

James kissed him then, right there in the driveway of the lighthouse on the Isle of Man. He pulled Jeremy’s head down slightly for a sweet, lingering press of lips that promised more and soon. And, for once, he honestly didn’t care if anyone happened to walk by.


End file.
